


Twice have I stood a beggar

by zinjadu



Series: Wed to Blight [32]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Comfort/Angst, Dragon Age: Origins - Return to Ostagar DLC, F/M, Father Figures, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-28 12:16:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19393957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinjadu/pseuds/zinjadu
Summary: Alistair found Duncan's body in Ostagar, and he has a chance to say good-bye.  It was harder than he thought it would be.(Because the tonal shift of mourning Cailan and not Duncan at Ostgar always stuck me as weird.  Fixing it here.)





	Twice have I stood a beggar

Swiping away the tears that gathered in his eyes, Alistair ran his hands over his face as if he were tired instead of giving in to grief. Again.

The sharp bite of winter nipped at his ears, but the heat of the blaze warmed his face. His boots scuffed in the fine dusting of snow, and he tried to make his eyes rest anywhere other than the broken body on the pyre. The darkspawn had done a number on Ostagar. They’d rooted up through the cellar of the Tower of Ishal—the tower where Cait had nearly died, where they both had nearly died he supposed, but he could too clearly remember the insignificant weight of her in his arms as she bled out and his promise to not let the darkspawn take her though they barely knew each other. The darkspawn had gone further and placed their own grotesque defences throughout the ruins. Ostagar, the great fortress that had withstood barbarians and armies had fallen at last.

Eyes going out of focus, the sparks from the fire danced and leapt up against a sky that brooded with low, dark clouds. His nose twitched at the the touch of snow on the wind, and he wondered if they would wake up with their tents covered.

Burning Cailan had been easier than this. The king had never been his brother, though he’d been a good man as far as Alistair had known. Between himself, Sten, and Shale they had been able to remove the frozen body from its grisly display and Leliana and Wynne had said some very nice things.

Even Morrigan had kept her mouth shut after Caitwyn had leveled a warning glance at the  _ witch _ . Alistair would take what he could get.

He really was too soft for this kind of life. The others were right; he had to not be so  _ weak _ . Duncan was beyond pain or sorrow or anything else now. What should it matter to him that one of the closest things he’d had to a father was found twisted and broken on the ground like he didn’t matter? What should it matter that the man’s armor was rent and dried blood caked his face, or that he had been left to rot in the whole of a long summer and frozen in grotesque horror with the sudden snap of winter?

A fierce stinging assaulted his eyes as tears spilled down his cheeks and froze there. 

“Alistair?” a soft, lilting voice called. He roughly wiped away his tears with the back of his hand and spun around to face Cait. Shame burned his in belly to have her see him like this. Would she think he wasn’t man enough— 

“Would it be alright if I joined you?” There was a cautious expression on her face. Concern for him showed in the arch of her brow and the softness of her eyes. Concern, not pity. Not disdain. 

“I suppose. If you want.” He shrugged, like it didn’t matter. Even though it did.

“He saved me, too.”

Her voice, quiet as the hush of snow, caught his attention. There was no forgetting the lanced-boil nature her confession, all her hurt and pain spilling out of her in a torrent. She’d killed a nobleman’s son, and Duncan had saved her from the gallows in Denerim. The last she hadn’t said, but he’d been able to put it together, and remembering it he wanted to slap himself for forgetting in the first place. Like he was the only one who could possibly have cared about Duncan. Like it was only his grief that mattered.

“He was a good man.” It wasn’t much an apology for his behavior, but she accepted it with sorrowful nod. The fire burned into the night, the logs of the pyre splitting and cracking from the heat, and all he could do was stand there like an idiot. What did people do at funerals anyway? Should he say something, since it wasn’t just him anymore? 

The tentative brush of gloved fingers against his own jolted him out of his litany of questions. Caitwyn stood closer to him, shoulder barely a hand’s breadth from his arm. He drew in a breath, the icy air stabbing into his lungs, and she tugged firmly at his hand before he could say anything. “Come on, you need to eat.”

He let himself be led back to the smaller campfire. The others were already huddled in their tents, this night not one for lingering around a campfire and telling hearty, fond remembrances of the dead. No one here had really known the dead except him, and the grim shadows of the ruin and what the darkspawn had done didn’t make for a festive atmosphere. 

Caitwyn brushed a dusting of snow off a log before nudging him to sit. Not long after he sat, a blanket was wrapped around his shoulders and a bowl of warm stew was in his hands.

A lump caught in his throat, and for a heartbeat he couldn’t speak even if he wanted to. Swallowing heavily, he managed a quiet, “Thanks.”

“Can’t forget the spoons. Very important, spoons,” she said, removing two spoons from a pocket of her tunic and brandishing them about. A tentative smile curved her lips, and he answered her in kind; not long ago it had been him going on about spoons. 

“You don’t have to do this. I’ll be alright,” he croaked. The ragged state of his voice gave away his lie, but maybe she wouldn’t point that out. Cait huffed and gave him a bland look, her bright green eyes seeing right through him.

“I’ll just leave you all alone, then. If that’s what you’d want.” Her head tilted, her face cool and distant by the light of the fire. “We’ll just forget that you sat by me.”

“No! I mean, don’t, I didn’t mean,” he stumbled and fumbled over his words, nothing coming out right. Maker help him, he was going to cry again. Not wanting her to see his weakness, he fixed his gaze to the rapidly congealing stew in the bowl he still held. The brush of fingers at his temple made him jump, and he raised his eyes to meet Caitwyn’s. Brows arched in sympathy, she cupped his face and he leaned into her touch. 

“I was fifteen when my mother died.” He didn’t move, didn’t dare  _ breathe _ . A grimace flickered over her features like she was arguing with herself. Then she said, “When she was murdered.”

“Cait—”

“Let me finish. Didn’t tell you this to make you feel bad for me. It was three years ago, and well. I had Papa, I had my cousins and aunties and uncles and  _ everyone _ . Can’t say I was very  _ good _ about it, but I had them. I wasn’t alone. Until I left Denerim, I’d  _ never _ been alone, even if I was by myself.”

A sharp pang lodged in his chest, an ache so fierce it made his throat close up. Her thumb stroked his cheek and he backed away from that old hurt. He wasn’t alone right now. He wasn’t— 

“Oh.”

“So you’ve caught up to me, then have you?” 

“I think so.” 

“Took you long enough.”

Her voice was light and teasing, but her brows knit with sympathy. Meeting her eyes, they reflected more than the light of the fire. They reflected his own grief without mockery or disdain. She saw him as he was, unmanly crying and all, and didn’t find him wanting. Shoulders rounding forward, his head bowed and fresh tears ran down his face. Deft fingers stroked his cheek and brushed his hair back while she hummed random snatches of soft, simple songs he didn’t know. 

“Stew’s gone cold,” he said lamely between wet sniffles.

“Give it here, then.” Without waiting for him to give her the bowl, she took it from him and dumped the contents back into the cast iron stew pot and laddeled up a warm serve for him and then did the same for herself. Methodically, he ate. Though he didn’t really taste the stew, it was warm and filling, but better than the stew and the fire combined was the small woman sitting next to him.

As if he sensed his gaze, she hid her stew-filled mouth behind her hand and asked, “What? I have stew on my face?”

“Just looking at you. I can do that, can’t I?”

“I’ll allow it. But just this once.”

“She’s beautiful and magnanimous. I’m a lucky fellow.”

“You’re a  _ strange _ fellow.”

“Aw, and here I thought you liked me.”

“I do. Doesn’t mean you aren’t strange.”

An amused huff escaped him, and a real smile bloomed on his face. The retort waited on the tip of his tongue,  _ you like that I’m strange _ , but he refrained. By the roll of her eyes, she knew what he wanted to say anyway. That only made his grin stretch wider.

She jabbed him in the side with her spoon in an attempt at revenge, but he didn’t mind. His gambeson took the brunt of the impact, and for a few moments longer the reality of Duncan’s death was held at bay. Held at bay by a small, slight woman who for reasons only known to the Maker saw something in him that she liked.

Then, before he could stop himself, he said, “You also have stew on your face.”

She promptly wiped her cheek only for her gloved fingers to come away clean. One dark eyebrow arched in his direction and she said dryly, “ _ Very _ strange.”

Yet she made no move to leave, and by the light of the campfire in the dark of a winter’s night they sat together and waited until Duncan's pyre burned itself out. One last vigil for the man who had given them both a second chance, and the man who, though he hadn’t known it, had brought him and Cait together.

Another reason to be thankful to the man who for too short a time, had been his captain and commander. His mentor. His friend.

The father he'd wished he'd had.

“Rest well, Duncan,” he whispered to the pyre. “And thank you.”


End file.
